


Severance

by Astrinde



Category: Robin of Sherwood
Genre: Drama, Implied Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:52:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrinde/pseuds/Astrinde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is narrated by the unfortunate Sir Guy of Gisburne during season 3; it begins about twenty minutes into <i>The Sheriff of Nottingham</i> and ends with the end of <i>The Pretender</i>.  What didn't we see during Philip Mark's brief term as Sheriff?  And what ties Guy to Nottingham Castle, though he defies and flees his servitude again and again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Available Means

**Author's Note:**

> A playlist for this story may be found on YouTube, under user _primordialmuse_ , titled _Severance_.
> 
> I'm game for any feedback, positive or negative. And if you'd like more reading material, this story takes place after _The Inquiry_ , _Aim and Arrow_ , and _Devoir_ , and before _Ad Valorem_ , all of which are posted here on the Archive.

_Car plus est adjoustee foy au mal de tant comme le bien y est plus auttentique._  
(Evil is rendered more believable by putting it together with good to make it more respectable.)  
—Christine de Pizan

          As the soldiers hauled him from the table, the Sheriff — that is, the _previous_ Sheriff of Nottingham — shouted for me, and from the long habit of many years, I started after him.  
          "Forget him, Gisburne," came a quick counter-order, equally compelling. The new Sheriff of Nottingham had just issued his first order to me, and I hesitated for a moment, caught between the two men and their opposing commands.  
          Then, suddenly, I realised: I didn't have to obey Robert de Rainault, not now, not ever again. He could yell my name all he wanted. I need not even listen.  
          "Let's have some wine," Philip Mark suggested, smiling.  
          Let's indeed, and why not? I picked up the vessel, forgetting the servants; I could certainly oblige any man who had arranged _this_ surprising turn of events. In less than one day, Mark had executed a murderous serf, deposed and passed judgment upon my former employer, and now reclined in the great hall as if he'd always been the master of Nottingham Castle.  
          As I held the pitcher over his cup, Mark reached over and patted my hand, in a manner both condescending and sure. "You're mine now," he declared.  
          His possessive words startled me; I am a knight of the realm, not a hunting-hound! But I finished the task, and tolerated the touch, and turned my burning face to the floor. Hubert de Giscard coughed from his seat at Mark's left; I hoped it was only a stuck morsel of food. _I am not 'yours'!_ I wanted to protest, but Philip Mark did not seem like a man who would argue. He would just—  
          ( _"You are banished."_ )  
          Mark squeezed my hand.  
          A chill shot up my arm, as I remembered what else I had heard about “the Butcher of Lincolnshire.”  
          ( _"—this...this posturing catamite!"_ )  
          But of course, it had to be a lie; the former Sheriff had often exaggerated, especially when he was angry. The new Sheriff couldn't possibly be like _that_ , not and keep the king's favour, not with the king's messenger de Giscard sitting right there. Philip Mark had intended to show me kindness, nothing more, and after years under Robert de Rainault, I had simply forgotten that kindness existed.  
          No, I could not allow de Rainault's suspicions and biting words to spoil my opportunity. I certainly didn't want to follow de Rainault's example, for he had fallen far, and now awaited his punishment in the company of Mark's guards.  
          So I turned my full attention back to Mark, while he spoke about the weather, praised the food and the wine. It seemed an eternity; I was not accustomed to small-talk at table and fidgeted restlessly as he continued. Then Mark asked me a question. "You served the former Sheriff as steward, yes?"  
          "Yes, my lord," I replied.  
          "Then you'll perform the same office for me," he said. "See to it that de Rainault's affairs are settled, and those rooms emptied.”  
          I almost upset the bench as I rose. "I'll go now, my lord. It's been a long journey. You'll want to rest."  
          He gave me an appraising stare. "I shall indeed," he said. "Run along, then." I bowed and departed.  
          While I hurried towards the master chambers, I wondered how exactly the guardsmen had dispensed with de Rainault. Men of power often shout and threaten when angered; I knew better than to believe that a nobleman would be sent into penniless exile for one badly-timed insult. Mark would decide upon the real verdict later, after he'd calmed his anger with some wine, and meanwhile, de Rainault was probably stewing in the dungeons.  
          Well, a stay there would certainly motivate him to show Mark the proper respect. Perhaps it would also teach the man to keep quiet when the occasion demanded — a lesson he should have learned long ago.  
          At last, I reached the chamber entryway and pushed on the heavy, fine wood. The door swung open quietly; I stepped in and shut it carefully behind me. Torches still burned, but the room held no other save myself.  
          I could almost hear de Rainault's voice mocking my haste. _So eager to please him, are you, Gisburne?_  
          I took a breath, released it, pushed from my mind everything that had just transpired. The events had not bothered me, of course, but were...unsettling. This was not how I had imagined parting from my employer...  
          ( _“Gisburne! Do something about it!” Yet Sarak had just killed a serf faster than I'd ever seen a man die. And Mark commanded me to remain, so what else could I do?_ )  
          It would not be the first time I had gathered personal effects. It was a simple task and never took long.  
          I began with the wardrobe, pulling out piles of clothing. As I worked, I could only feel scorn at the lavish expenditures that I held. Did one man really need so much decoration?  
          Mark, by comparison, had arrived in riding-clothes that were austere and evidenced no love of gems or frills. Certainly he wouldn't care about these things. I touched the purple velvets that had come from Italy at great expense and trouble; they wouldn't fit the new Sheriff, even if they suited his taste. If Mark learned that de Rainault had worn this heavy brown robe after bathing, he would probably jest that this was no longer the case. And this, the green satin, it wouldn’t matter to Mark that I had seen my former lord nearly married in these clothes.  
          ( _“Are you trying to be funny, Gisburne?” I turned and stared..._ )  
          I shook my head and set the fripperies aside, and when that was done, I turned to the bedstead. The coverings were pulled out and trailing on the ground, likely from the morning's waking. I yanked them out entirely and piled them loosely on the mattress; Mark would not want to rest beneath another's blankets, surely.  
          ( _“Sherwood? At night? You can't mean it!”_ )  
          Then my eye caught clothing I had missed, though it draped over the front bed-post in plain view. It was the crimson robe that de Rainault had been wearing when they'd taken him away. I touched the silk; it shone ruby-hued in the torchlight, its gold embroidery patterned like gashes across the chest.  
          ( _“—we'll just have to dress you in rags, won't we?”_ )  
          Surely Mark hadn't meant that. He couldn't have. I looked away from the cloth and threw it onto the pile with the rest.  
          From there, I went to the cases of the writing-desk, to the “affairs” I'd been asked to settle, whatever those might be. I thought perhaps to find the sorcery implements I'd always half-suspected de Rainault of possessing. ( _“Superstition is a hobby-horse of mine.” What was the ‘feast of Bel-tan,’ anyhow?_ ) Or the tokens of some distant lover, or some valuable treasure that had been missed. But the compartments of the desk were less interesting than my imaginings. There were business receipts, leases, pending verdicts, the same sorts of documents that I saw him sign all the time, and these I gathered together to take with me. Only the final case was intriguing. It stood open; once locked, it was now unlatched, with a key protruding from the front.  
          I looked into the compartment and lifted out a silver cross on a chain, simple and not at all rich like de Rainault’s tastes. It was delicate, a woman's ornament. Then my hands touched an arrow, a plain common thing. At last I pulled out a cloth, a tunic that had been used to line the case. I tilted it towards the wall-sconces, and when I saw it clearly — a light blue brocade edged in silver — the flesh of my face and hands lost its feeling.  
          ( _He wore frost-blue, like the winter night, and for all of his elegant gilding he struck the colée with an unexpected strength, and his eyes were cold. But then he embraced me, and kissed my cheeks, and when he said, 'advances, chévalier, au nom de Dieu’, I was ready to die for him._ )  
          This garment I remembered well, recalling my knighting each time he'd worn it....I realised it must have been stored for years. I'd last seen it when I'd returned from Sherwood, soaked through and humiliated. That was the night Hugo had released me from St. Mary's at last, and—  
          I wrenched my attention back to the present, for foolhardy reminisces over fabrics would serve me nothing; such conduct was not becoming of a soldier, and certainly would not complete my task.  
          But why had he kept these things, locked away?  
          Distractedly, I ran a hand over the tunic's broken clasps, and then I realised: there was another sealed case in this room, one whose contents were surely even more fascinating. The dark far-right corner held a small money-chest, which rested sedately on a wooden stand. I had never seen de Rainault open it; I had no idea what it contained. But for once, there was no-one else here. I could hear the speed and force of my heart beating, as I pulled the key and went to the chest.  
          Its lock sprang open easily at the key's touch; almost forgetting to breathe, I looked inside.  
          A large bag filled most of the space, and atop that bag rested a tightly-rolled parchment, scribbled hastily with its recipient’s identity: _Abbot Hugo de Rainault, St. Mary's Abbey_. The scroll was tied with a ribbon that weighted heavily; de Rainault had attached a ring to it, a gem that he always wore. It was a fine amethyst, set in a heavy gold band. I touched the jewel against my lips, and considered for a moment. This document was his will; it had to be.  
          Hurriedly I peered into the money-sack, where the glint of coin greeted my eyes. I estimated hundreds of them — years of salary — simply lying there for the taking. It was prosperity of a sort that I had never imagined. It was the freedom to do whatever I wished.  
          I started to reach in, then stayed my hand.  
          I couldn't destroy de Rainault's last testament which, unfortunately, would likely calculate and distribute all of this wealth. And if Mark were to somehow discover—  
          ( _“In Lincolnshire, the people were just too....afraid.”_ )  
          In the end, I took only ten, placing the coins carefully and softly against the others in my purse; such a small number could easily be overlooked. Then I again sealed the chest and placed its key clearly upon the writing-desk. It was probably the only one of de Rainault's belongings that would interest Philip Mark.  
          Finally I looked at the scroll, and wondered: would Hugo really miss a single ring? Especially with the estates and fortunes he surely stood ready to inherit?  
          A distant sound interrupted me, and I started like a timid beast. Footsteps rang closer and closer; it must be Mark.  
          So I untied the ring quickly and slipped it into the top of my boot, to examine later. As for the other things I’d found, I thought for only a second.  
          ( _“You thought, did you, Gisburne? What a pity I wasn't here.”_ )  
          _Shut up!_ I hissed to myself.  
          The tunic would mean nothing to Mark. The cross, well, some pretty maid would receive the trinket gratefully, and then it could adorn her breast while I enjoyed her. And the arrow, that was certainly useful as well; perhaps it could soon find new residence, in Robin Hood’s skull. So I slipped the long arrow beneath my robe, using my belt to secure it discreetly at my side. Then I wrapped the necklace and the sealed scroll in the tunic, piled de Rainault's papers on top, and made for the door. A swift look around the room told me I'd been thorough.  
          I opened the door and observed Philip Mark indeed approaching; he nodded acknowledgment when he saw me. His presence felt like an invasion, though these rooms were rightfully his.  
          My smile was strained, but fortunately, Mark didn't notice it. He swept past me and saw the chamber, orderly as he'd asked, and nodded at me with evident approval. “Excellent. We'll get rid of these things at once.”  
          “My lord, if I may suggest—” I blurted out. He nodded, and I continued, a bit more smoothly. “You could send them to St. Mary’s Abbey.”  
          He looked at me incredulously and then laughed loudly. I didn’t understand why granting de Rainault’s effects to his brother was so funny, until Mark spoke. “Give his possessions to the poor? Inflicting further injury by insult, it’s brilliant!” He touched my chin lightly with his finger, the way I’d seen him do with the serving-boy. I stiffened. “I see I must be careful of _you_ , my dear Gisburne!”  
          _That’s exactly what de Rainault said_ , I thought curiously.  
          “My lord!” came a cry from down the corridor.  
          Mark and I turned to look. One of Mark’s guardsmen ran unsteadily towards us, and I could see a dark, sinkingly familiar stain on his tabard.  
          But Mark seemed unperturbed. “Report,” he ordered.  
          The man stopped, breathing hard and resting one hand on his thigh. “M’lord…the Sheriff — _former_ Sheriff — he attacked us. He'd a knife—“  
          “A knife,” Mark repeated, interrupting. There was something warning in his voice.  
          “Yes, sir,” the guard confirmed.  
          “He was to be dressed in rags and left with _nothing_ ,” Mark said, looking daggers at the shrinking man. “Now where — how — did he get a knife?”  
          I could see the man’s fear as he tried to explain. “My…my lord…I…”  
          I gripped the things I held, and suddenly I remembered the scroll. It was tied with a ribbon, not sealed with wax. As though he'd been too rushed to—  
          Had those fools actually left de Rainault _alone?_ It was possible. It would be an act of decency, to allow him privacy instead of forcing him into the clothes, and even a few moments in his own chambers would have been ample time...  
          I felt pride in my own thinking, in being able to so predict the Sheriff’s wiles. Even I, for all of my stupidity, would never have trusted Robert de Rainault in a sealed room!  
          But then I heard Mark’s sharply-drawn breath, and realised he might well reach the same conclusion. And if he figured it out, this man would be dead.  
          Certainly I didn’t care what happened to a lowly guard, and a stranger besides; I had no need to intervene.  
          “My lord,” I interrupted. “De Rainault kept a few weapons hidden in the castle. He was…fearful of deposition. Paranoid, even.”  
          The guard looked at me with eyes wide.  
          I nearly added that Mark hadn’t ordered de Rainault's hands tied, then realised that — while true — it could be dangerous to point out that fact. “He is a deceitful man with many such tricks, my lord; I...I should have suggested that he be bound.” The assessment seemed to please Mark.  
          Then I looked at the guardsman and kept talking; I hoped I wasn’t babbling. “Are you wounded?” It was false urgency; I could see that the blood wasn’t his.  
          The guard looked down at his garment as if just noticing it. “No, my lord, thank you.” His eyes flickered up to me, and I saw that he was grateful for more than my show of concern. His next words were more nervous than mine. “But...in the east wing...h-he killed one of us, before we could—”  
          “No-one else was hurt?” I persisted.  
          “No, my lord.”  
          Mark nodded to the guard. “See that all's tidied and your man buried. Use any of the servants you need. And—“  
          The guard looked at Mark, suddenly terrified again.  
          “If you dare such carelessness again, you will _all_ join your deceased companion.” His voice was steel, his eyes were steel; gone was any of the warmth I’d seen earlier. It was a momentary and frightening change. The guard bowed and ran with his life. Then Mark turned back to me, smiled, and it was as though the last few minutes had never transpired.  
          “Now, where were we before this unpleasantness? Ah yes, Saint Mary’s,” he remembered, with a chuckle. Then his eyes moved from my face, down to the bulky bundle I held in both arms. “And these are—?”  
          I clutched the objects closer as if to protect them, and myself. “The matters you asked me to attend to, my lord."  
          "And this?" he asked, gesturing to the pale cloth. "Another item of...business?"  
          "Oh no, it's...it's mine, my lord,” I invented quickly. “I'm retrieving it.”  
          He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?” He trailed his fingers lightly over the fabric, and I froze, willing him not to pull it from me. Mark looked up and searched my face. “You ought to wear this soon; the colour reflects your eyes, Guy.”  
          I nodded and burbled something in reply — I cannot even recall the words I spoke — and retreated as hastily as possible to my chamber. After pushing the door bolt into place, I breathed more easily.  
          Only then did I think of several things.  
          That hearing Philip Mark speak my Christian name was unpleasant to my ears.  
          That Mark seemed to like blue, and for a moment I wished to discard nearly every garment I owned.  
          And that, worst of all, I'd apparently just implied to him that I left _my_ clothes in _de Rainault's_ chambers. _You impulsive, incompetent idiot!_ I berated myself. _You couldn't have thought of anything else to say? And for what? To keep a few trinkets, you've let him think that you...that you—_  
          ( _“—aren’t you, Gisburne?”_ )  
          I dug my nails into my palms, willed my stupid hands to stop shaking.  
          My chair was already set before the window. I dumped the papers quickly onto the bed and retrieved the arrow I'd hidden, then balanced it upon my knees while unwrapping the brocade folds of “my” clothing, eager to examine each in turn.  
          The arrow was plain and looked old, the metal point stained with a bit of rust. There was nothing really to distinguish it from any other arrow, and I had no idea why he'd kept it.  
          Next I took up the little silver necklace, but set it quickly upon the desk in favour of the more intriguing item, the parchment; I longed to know its message. But its contents could not be accepted as scribed if anyone but Hugo untied those knots. I couldn't risk Mark compromising it, or worse still, destroying it. Especially if there was anything written there which concerned me...  
          So, slowly, I unlatched the deadbolt and looked into the halls, checking in every direction I could see, and probably a few that a man couldn't even travel.  
          I gestured to the first servant I saw, beckoning him impatiently to the doorway. “Find a messenger. Get this to Saint Mary's,” I told him, and I gave him a few of the coins from my worn purse, and he was surprised at the amount that I didn't waste time counting. “Tell no-one else,” I ordered. “And _hurry_.” He nodded dumbly and sped away the way he’d come.  
          From my high window, I watched until I saw one of the castle's messengers ride from the gates, towards the abbey. Messengers passed all the time; no-one bothered to look at him. I almost envied him.  
          Then I smelled something, so familiar that it made my eyes burn. It was the tunic. The servants must have placed herbs among the clothes.  
          De Rainault had sown these seeds himself. He’d deserved his fate; even de Giscard had said so.  
          I became still. I looked at the tunic in my hands. And then, I think, I truly realised.  
          _Sherwood_.  
          Mark’s order had been carried out, and Mark would blithely send the bundled possessions to Hugo as though their owner had no further need of them. And de Rainault was indeed as good as dead; if the outlaws didn't kill him, then he'd be eaten alive by animals, or hunger.  
          God, that was no death for a man. Without a single weapon to fight back.  
          ( _The small blade glinted as he coaxed the quill's tip into proper shape, his hands slender and quick—_  
          _“He attacked us...he'd a knife..”_ )  
          I shook off the thoughts, and willed away the perverse and nonsensical pride I'd felt in the guardsman’s report.  
          Then I took the ring from my boot. It was a fine consolation for the disturbing events of the day, and anyhow, what had de Rainault ever given me? Even one good word for everything I'd done for him, anything at all but insult and humiliation and grief?  
          I slipped the circlet onto my fourth finger and felt the new and pleasant weight and tilted my hand to see the stone shine. The band fit perfectly, though he was shorter and slighter than I. _He had been._  
          Night came quickly, and then I couldn't see the north road or the gem's light anymore. But I didn't move. I pressed my face to the cloth, breathed it, sat for a long time alone. _Christ..._  
          That word brought to mind the faith which I had failed these many months. God had surely righted the books at last, in removing de Rainault from office; it had to be vengeance against his countless transgressions. Such a God should have my loyalty in fact, not just in name. I resolved to return to confession, to put my soul in better order.  
          But for the time being, I decided, I should not allow this sudden gloom to continue. Melancholy is a poor habit to indulge; it only saps a soldier’s strength. I had done for de Rainault more than anyone else would have. He would have to survive on his own.  
          So would I, for that matter, and surely there was no better aid to a man's fortitude than wine? Mark had brought his own casks, filled with some sweet spiced concoction from the East that tasted of raisins and honey. He had opened one for the earlier meal. I would go and see to the remainder.  
          I changed my boots for slippers, then quietly unlocked the door and peered both ways. The open hallway's stones were cold against my soft-shod heels, and I shivered until I reached the hall.  
          The vast room was empty. That in itself was strange. Often the Sheriff had simply had papers brought to the bench, working next to a carving-board and a wine-ewer. If I came for a late evening repast, he would look up, hurl some new indignity at me as I passed. Sometimes I would sit near him, drink there and argue back. But the hall was enormously hollow now. It was the first time I had seen it unoccupied—  
          ( _“Just how drunk **are** you, Gisburne?” —not nearly enough—_ )  
          The wine! The _wine_ , I thought, clenching my teeth. Only _this_ wine, and not the empty hall. Not this unreal afternoon. Not Sherwood Forest or its throat-cutting outlaws, or its ensorcelled trees that were all _his_ problems now, and _not_ mine. Really, it served him right for planting us both in this miserable country, where everything lurked in wait to bewitch and entrap a decent man!  
          And I would get rid of his things as soon as I returned to my chambers, I resolved, toasting the decision with a long fiery drink. It was time to discard all traces of him and start fresh. Though, perhaps I’d have the tunic remade into something useful; Mark was correct that the colour suited me. And it would suit me to keep Mark happy, until the outlaws were caught and killed. Until he made it clear that these disastrous years had been de Rainault’s failure and not mine.  
          Then, I thought, looking at the ring I wore, I would have means, and could request transfer to any place I wished. I could go to the Earl of Chester, perhaps — I’d told that stupid de Talmont woman as much — and leave this dark castle and its wretched memories behind.


	2. Folie à Deux

          I could hear the castle late astir; footsteps snapped back and forth as men called out instructions, and the stones seemed to tremble with heavy thuds and scrapes as objects shifted. Evidently, Mark wasted no time in seeing to his comforts.  
          I stood at the table alone and drained my cup, and I only stumbled a little when I threw back my head to drink. So I took the rough cask under my arm and made a swift return to my chambers. The weighty lock slid back into place, and I thought to spend an excellent evening by myself.  
          But first, I remembered the resolution that I had made, to have done with the past. So I lifted the cross still resting on my table, and for a moment, my arm drew back to throw the necklace from my window. I imagined it might be found by some fortunate maid, or broken on the cobbles, or trampled into the mud and buried there; in any case, it would vanish from my view.  
          And then I hesitated. I looked at the little ornament, and I wondered who would have given such a thing to Robert de Rainault. He hated people. He wasn’t even religious.  
          ( _“I hear you have a brother, an abbot...I think you should go to him. Perhaps you could take the holy orders yourself.”_ )  
          I stared at the cross and started snickering, just as I had when those words were first uttered. The Church would never be foolish enough to accept _those_ vows! Why, de Rainault’s vestments would glitter more than the entire cathedral. _Brother Robert_ would drink costly wines from the communion chalice, and he'd steal every silver out of the poor-boxes to pay for them.  
          And he would be alive. ( _Damn you, why didn't you just listen to him, take his offer? Why didn't you go?_ ) My chuckling started to quiet, and I forced out another laugh; it was my first night of freedom, and I would savour it... ( _All you had to do was bow and nod and keep him happy!_ )  
          ...God, _Frère de Rainault!_ He would blackmail half of Nottinghamshire from the confessional, like a demented Brother Louis!  
          Ah, _that_ name — it was from a song I'd learned as a youth. I had not sung it in ages, but I still knew the tune, and there was no-one to tell me to shut up my singing now, was there? So I drank down my cup, filled it again, and began the story, though there was no-one to hear. It surprised me that I still knew the words, that I remembered how to sing at all; it was a lone revelry, but one pleasant enough for its lack of company.  
          But only a short time had passed before I heard a firm rapping at my door. At the sound, my simple song stuck in my throat and died away.  
          I looked at the cross I still held, uncertain now; finally, I tied the pendant quickly round my neck and pushed it under my shirt. Then I shoved open the door and saw Mark's man, the covered killer, the man without a face: Sarak.  
          The Saracen did not seem to have a voice, either; he said nothing, only held out an arm in a gesture of summoning and looked pointedly towards Mark's chambers. Startled, I nodded automatically. He bowed slightly and retreated without a sound.  
          It was already quite late. I didn’t want to see anyone.  
          I didn’t want to return to those rooms.  
          But I bore no illusions about what would happen if I tried to refuse: I’d join de Rainault in d—banishment! In Sherwood, somewhere in Sherwood...  
          No, I had to answer Mark but, I cleverly realised, I could choose _how_ I replied. So I poured out the cask's remainder, one cup, and another, draining each with heady speed. The pure unwatered wine hit me in a rush; I would pay for it tomorrow. But he would see that I was drunk, and he would send me away, and then I could spend the rest of my evening as I wished.  
          I donned a red over-robe and left my quarters, and I staggered not at all — or perhaps only a little — as I strode directly to the familiar door. For a moment, I rested my forehead on its cool wooden frame, and thought _Christ, keep me from making a fool of myself!_  
          Already I was so drunk, it was a wonder I still knew the Lord’s name.  
          Though Mark was expecting me, for the sake of politeness—  
          ( _“—and tact, Gisburne, you're very short on tact.”_ )  
          —I tapped at the door.  
          “Enter,” came the reply.  
          I pushed open the door, and tried to keep the shock from my face at the sight which greeted me. De Rainault's chambers had become strange and unwelcoming, offending my senses with further needless opulence. A heavy, pungent smoke filled the air; I thought something was afire until I realised it was deliberate, and meant to be pleasant. There were far more candles lit than the evening's darkness required, and Mark sat in a seat I'd never seen before, gilded and too colourfully jeweled. He had changed from his riding-leathers into a rich fur garment, and his arms rested easily upon his chair. A boy-servant stood on either side of him, tending to his hands as though smoothing away the weariness of his journey.  
          “Refreshment, Sir Guy?" the new Sheriff asked.  
          Mark's unguarded laxity on this, his first evening of service, perplexed me, as did his apparent indifference to my drunken state. I wanted to leave immediately; most certainly, I wanted no part in any further "refreshment." But this Sheriff would take my refusal quite poorly, would he not? Before I could even speak, Mark gestured; instantly, one of the youths poured out wine and handed me a distressingly full goblet.  
          Mark eyed me then, in a manner I did not like, while I tried to sip from the heavy cup. “There is so much beauty in this country,” he observed.  
          “Do your quarters please you?” I interrupted quickly. _He is praising the castle, the countryside; please let him be!_  
          He chuckled. “They do indeed. But sit.” The two youths moved from his arms with well-trained efficiency; one brought me a chair, and when I’d obeyed Mark's order, the other set down my wine and held out his hands, offering to me the same service he'd rendered his master. Stunned, I waved the boy aside, hoping it would seem like mere politeness. The lad was of a squire’s age; he should have been training or performing chores, not grooming limbs like a serving-girl!  
          But I had no time to think further, for a knock sounded at the door. Mark rolled his eyes at me, then called out his permission for entry. Another of Mark’s guardsmen — I didn’t recognise his face — swung the door open and waited hesitantly at the threshold.  
          “Ah,” Mark said, obviously expecting him. “Report.”  
          “It has been done, as you ordered, m’lord,” the man said. His eyes strayed towards me with sly curiosity, and I turned my face away, pretending sudden interest in a silk wall-hanging.  
          “Well-done,” Mark answered. “You are dismissed.”  
          The soldier bowed and left, closing the door.  
          Mark again looked at me, and I hoped that my burning cheeks were not evident to him. Then he broke the gaze and again reclined back in his seat, wreathed in scented smoke. “So,” he said pleasantly. “I'm told that you were singing, _bel guerreur_. Can it be, that a lover of war is also a lover of music?”  
          “Not truly, my lord. Song is just...idleness. A foolish waste of time,” I said, hoping the lie would be forgiven. I didn't want to speak of it, nor of any other matter. This was so very confusing to me; all I wished by then was to sleep, yet he refused to dismiss me! “That is...I do not particularly care for music; I have other diversions.” A man in the royal employ had spoken such words; surely it would be a courteous enough reply.  
          He inhaled so sharply that I saw his nostrils flare. “Really. And what sort of _diversions_ do you enjoy, _chévalier?_ ”  
          My stomach sank. How had I forgotten what the Prince's messenger had meant? John didn't care for music because he traveled with a string of whores!  
          “So shy?” Mark breathed, breaking my silence. He turned aside to gaze upon an ornate candelabrum, whose tapers' light shone from his sleek fur robe. “This won't do. It's a simple question, sir knight.”  
          _I enjoy being left alone!_ I nearly blurted out my true response, but held my tongue with all of my strength. Instead I sat like a dumb wretch, trying to glance nonchalantly around the room, without meeting his eyes or looking at his servants.  
          But Mark seemed to notice my discomfiture nonetheless, for he chuckled softly and dismissed the youths. “Out, both of you. I'll call for you in the morning.” The velvet-clad young men bowed low, and I could hear them laughing easily with each other, as they left the room to seek rest elsewhere.  
          Then the door closed behind them, and it sounded like a crypt slamming shut. God, I’d surely offended Mark already, brainless drunken lout that I was. “My lord,” I pleaded, the wine burning miserably in my heart.  
          “You’re not accustomed to luxury,” he said, apologising for me. He studied me. “But really — do you never smile?”  
          I cannot imagine how awful it must have looked, as I tried to force contentment onto my flesh. Mother Mary, what _was_ he burning in here? It smelled just awful, but he kept talking through the haze as though nothing were amiss.  
          “You had few enough reasons for mirth in this godforsaken place, with your _former_ master,” Mark quipped, following his observation with a thin chuckle. Then he, to my horror, leaned forward and took my hand between his two. “I think we must gather the court here very soon. To announce the demise of Robin Hood and brighten this dreary stone a bit." His smile was troubling in its familiarity. "What say you, my friend?”  
          I heard little beyond _the demise of Robin Hood_ ; it was the best news I'd had all day. “An excellent notion, my lord,” I answered honestly, gesturing with my hands as though moved by enthusiasm alone.  
          Then I lifted my goblet and spoke with unwise forthrightness, blunted by weariness and wine. “But we'd best take care, my lord. The outlaws and their tricks...we thought they'd been beaten before. But de Rainault—"  
          “No,” Mark ordered sternly, swiftly rising. He again took hold of me, grabbing my wrist and pulling me up to face him, so suddenly that a splash of wine stained my robe. “You shall not speak that name in my presence again; I _insist_ upon it.” And then his warm smile returned, as though the moment of anger had never been.  
          I set down the dripping cup and strained to recover any composure I might have had. “My lord...” Damn the wine, and damn my imbecilic ideas; I _needed_ the wits that I’d so hastily drained away! “...my lord, forgive me, I've no skill for conversation...”  
          “Your mere presence suffices, _mi bel_ ,” he said softly. His eyes were hungry and bright. He released my wrist and put his palm over my cheek; it pained me, yet what could I do?  
          But when I moved my freed arm, without his steadying grasp, the shock of the wine and his words and his touch hit me together; I swayed and lost my balance, trying not to fall. "My lord—"  
          Mark’s face flickered and swam in my vision as he supported me, guiding me to the bedstead. “Ah, my dear, _pauvre_ ,” he crooned, standing over me as I regained my bearings. “The wine's gone right to your head. Even _with_ your little charm—" he teased, holding up my hand with its shining jewel, "—you're vanquished."  
          I nodded, sitting miserably in the last place I wanted to be, ready to agree with anything he said if only he would send me away — or if the room would stop moving beneath me.  
          "And lovely indeed,” I heard him muse aloud.  
          Sickened by dizziness and sudden gall, I sank my face into my hands. He allowed me to sit for several moments and did not speak; when I again heard his voice, I wished I hadn't.  
          “Guy," he called softly, too intimately, saying my name again without the regard of rank. "You'll sleep here.”  
          I wanted to strike him for that command; the idea of remaining in this ruined chamber repulsed me. But my lord had spoken, and I'd no choice but to lower my body to the mattress. I lay myself down as he'd ordered, like a hound responding to the lead, and it was anger, not liquor, that warmed me.  
          Then Mark bent over me and propped my head upon one of the pillows. His lips slid over my forehead and touched my hair, and I heard him speak as though pronouncing a benediction, or maybe it was just the wine I heard... _time enough...sleep_...as though such words would _soothe_ me, merciful Lord! I squeezed my eyes shut, and at last, he let me be.  
          I turned to my side then, away from his gaze, and held the cushion under my wretched head. It seemed as if the whole world lurched, as if the wine welled up in me and trickled out from my shut eyelids, and no, I didn’t _care_ whose room this was, whose bed or whose pillows ( _why, why had Mark kept them?_ ), as long as I could rest, and one day, leave this place far behind me—  
          Then I felt a heavy weight settle at my side, and a hand traced a path up my arm, grasped my shoulder.  
          “The joy of the hunt, my dear Guy,” Philip Mark whispered.  
          _You have no right! no right here!_ But I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t move, couldn’t act ( _“ah, yes, action, the eternal excuse for not stopping to think—“) leave me alone!!_  
          But they say God watches over fools and drunkards, and so perhaps He took notice of me who was both. For Mark again took my shield-hand between his, and laid back with my palm against his chest, and he did not move again.  
          Before I allowed myself the same mercy, I had two thoughts.  
          I remembered that Mark had been Lincoln’s chief forester — a hunter.  
          And then I clumsily tapped the dagger still secure in my right sleeve, and realised that I could kill him if he touched me. And to _hell_ with those cherubic children sleeping in the adjacent rooms, because one of _them_ would wake up holding the knife.


	3. The Mark in Question

          You know, de Rainault, I really am most put out with you.  
          Even before I departed Lincolnshire, I was warned about your sharp tongue and your wit, so much that I was almost looking forward to vanquishing you. Then I arrived, and found that your intellect was much exaggerated, and your tongue, well, it's the sort of 'sharp' that bores instead of stimulates a man, alas. Still, I could have had use from you; your eyes were pleasing, and you certainly behaved like you could use a good bedding. If you'd only shown me the right deference, instead of forcing me to discard you.  
          Oh, how foolish you were, de Rainault, you and your deputy both! Could neither of you have taken a wife, to parade an heir before the ones who watched you? By sweet Aphrodite, what did you think would happen, you and he unmatched for so long and spending every moment inseparably? For sure there are priests who will allow it, they'll even bless the union, but you won't find them in Nottinghamshire and definitely not in your brother's abbey! You are immensely fortunate that I sent you into Sherwood instead of packing you off to the King, for he, too, had a few scores to settle with you.  
          But not with _me_ , de Rainault, and that is a difference between us. I left a wife behind in Lincoln, and I brought plenty of silver to slip into de Giscard's pockets, because the King doesn't hear rumours over the sweet chiming of coins. You see how simple it would have been, to keep your castle and your pretty knight? How you gained a reputation for scheming, I shall never understand.  
          And I would speak to you now of this knight! Because he is really the reason I am irrevocably vexed with you. I had heard how incompetent you _both_ were, yet _he_ was cunning enough to offer me his service the moment he saw me for what I am. And he is _exquisite_ , de Rainault, truly. I cannot conceive that you were stupid enough to loose him from your grasp because of a few petty outlaws (when you should have started killing off those deplorable serfs ages ago!).  
          But I am not passing this pleasant evening sporting with him. I am lying next to him while he sleeps like a corpse — tell me, why is that? He cannot be pining for you; no man could long for such a detestable little troll. So now I would know, did you harm him, de Rainault, that now he comes to this room stripped of his senses? Were you _maladroit_ in this bedchamber as much as in your seat of office?  
          Or, worse yet, de Rainault, did you _dare_ to keep an Apollo locked in this awful place alone? Did you keep him unwed _and_ unsatisfied? He rests well enough on these cushions, not at all awkward like a youth awed by his lord's chambers. But he is drunk and fearful and I can almost believe that either you never touched him, or that you did so with such pathetic ineptitude that he will need the patience due a child.  
          My blood races merely by _looking_ at him, de Rainault. I am _not_ in the mood for patience.  
          Why, even if you crawled back to this castle and begged my forgiveness face-down, I would not allow you within a mile of him. Except perhaps to make you watch — from the rack! — while I showed him what a real man could do.  
          And 'sblood, I hope you have not poisoned him with your repugnant character. I would rather spend my nights exploring his charms, not in training unbecoming habits out of him. If I must strike or whip him because of you, de Rainault, that is another offense I shall hold against you.  
          Really, the more I consider this, the more I think I should send my hounds and a few foresters into Sherwood, to hunt you down like the dog you are. Perhaps I shall allow some time for you to starve and weaken first. At the least, I shall wait a day, so that your _former_ steward can clear his head, and enjoy the spectacle at my side.  
          I am not grateful for the chaos you created in Nottinghamshire, but you have at least left me a princely reward for my efforts. He's mine now, de Rainault, and the first time I touch him, he will forget that you even existed.


	4. A Captive Audience

          The water was biting and freezing, but it helped dampen the miserable fire in my skull as I bent my head into the trough. Eastern wine had to be brewed by Saracens for the damnation of Christian men, I thought, but at least it had left me enough wits to awaken and leave Mark's room before sunup. I shook the water from my hair and then dressed carefully, in dark mail and a plain brown tabard and no trace of blue on my person. The sky was clear, and the day looked quite fair for an execution.  
          Wet-headed and tired, I walked to the inner courtyard and surveyed the preparations. The newly-erected dais and its three seats were empty. Servants had swept the grounds clean and scattered fresh straw. I could see Sarak at the other end of the yard. He bowed slightly; I returned the salute. Both of us scanned the fortifications, and I noted unmanned gaps in the upper walls, and sighed.  
          How was it possible to train these guards in their proper duties here, when they were conscripted for forty days and then allowed to return home? By the time they learned Nottingham Castle from portcullis to postern, their term was nearly up, and good riddance to them; most of them hated these walls and couldn't wait to leave. Over and over I’d asked de Rainault for more men, more time. Well, perhaps Philip Mark would actually _listen_ , and after today, there might not be such a great need for soldiers.  
          As I strode inside, I spied Sir Lucien — thank God, one of the few competent fighters among these oafs. “I want four more men on the main gate, and double the patrols on the battlements,” I instructed, and gestured. “Move!” To my relief, he replied in the affirmative and then went to just go _do_ it, and I didn’t have to spend the next fifteen minutes explaining a simple order.  
          “You’re over-cautious, my dear Gisburne,” I heard, and in swept Mark, still wearing his robes from the night before. He looked at me knowingly, and I glanced at the ground.  
          “My lord,” I said, flustered, hoping he wouldn't talk about anything except the day ahead. “With respect...I know these men. They’ll try something.”  
          “You think so? Well.” He seemed amused. “Let them. We’ll be ready for them...won’t we?” His eyes were invasive, and he smiled, showing no trace of worry at all. He walked away — to dress for the day, I hoped — and his arm brushed mine as he glided past.  
          My gut twisted, with concern, with admiration. De Rainault had been too soft in Nottingham, too much bluster and paperwork and not enough killing. How I wanted Mark’s certainty, the confidence to go wherever I pleased and know that no-one would dare to make light of my commands. Well, I would _indeed_ be ready for the wolfsheads; in fact, I couldn't wait to see them, almost danced with anticipation to see what Sarak would do then.  
          And after they hanged for all to see, the inevitable apologies would come. I entered the great hall and found it again devoid of castle-folk, but there was a repast laid out; I filled a tankard with small-beer, took a trencher and some meat from the night before, and as I chewed, imagined the chagrin when word spread of how wrong they’d been about Nottinghamshire and especially about me. I’d be gracious. Not too gracious, of course, not too humble to accept lands and a title or two. And then what choice would I have except to go administer my new estates? Sir Lucien, Sir Ondine, a few others I could actually stand, they’d accompany me if I asked. A pity I couldn’t show de Rainault that I’d learned something of politics after all.  
          But no, _no!_ when I left here, I’d wash my hands of Sheriffs and all of their weak-willed, unwholesome entanglements. I took a long drink and winced. If only my head would stop trying to murder me.  
          Indeed, when I first heard the distant noise, I wondered if wine could still be sloshing in my ears. But I had no wish to fail in the final hour because of a nasty hangover, so I lifted my foot from its prop on the bench and took a candelabrum to follow the sound.  
          Each room I entered stood cold and empty, not much different than usual.  
          But in the side corridor I entered, there was a long shadow near my feet. It looked like the wide stone blocks had somehow shifted, and it had _not_ appeared this way before; I was certain, as there was little else to do here except study this blasted castle from base-stones to roof-tiles. As I leaned over it, I saw what appeared to be a displaced square of flooring, and when I put out a hand, I touched a gap in the ground.  
          Now my heart and my head both pounded. I set down the lights and felt around until my hand met a grip of some sort. It took most of my strength to lift the handle, and dust rose into my face as a wide space was revealed.  
          It was a portal; I could see a ladder trailing down into a dark passage.  
          A tunnel, then, and it surely led outside the walls, it must! Such escapes were rumoured to exist in other castles.  
          The wolfsheads would try something, wouldn’t they? I’d said so myself. Except I had no idea how they’d discovered—  
          Oh, didn’t I? I knew who _else_ would be willing to do anything to get into the castle.  
          ( _“—in the east wing. He...he killed one of us...”_ )  
          Had de Rainault been here? Had he been trying to _escape_ when he drew a dagger on his guards? I'd assumed he attacked them merely for spite; I'd known of no way for a lone man with a knife to get through Nottingham's gates. But perhaps I wasn’t the only one to miscalculate. Mark, for all of his swagger, might have just managed to unite de Rainault’s wiles and the outlaws’ pathetic sense of “justice” against him.  
          Again came an odd whisper of pride; I brushed it aside.  
          Of course I had to notify Mark. I wasn’t _that_ amused; my future waited on this execution.  
          But my thoughts started to gallop ahead of me excitedly. I considered that I could warn Mark, without describing this passage at all. And then, if King John again descended upon Nottinghamshire, if Mark proved beyond endurance, if I wanted to simply walk in the air unobserved ( _and where did the passage come out — near Sherwood?_ ) — I’d have a way out, wouldn’t I?  
          _My lord,_ I practiced softly, _I’ve been told—_ no, better yet, _one of my informants_ — yes, that sounded more competent, more deliberate — _has told me that the outlaws plan to infiltrate the castle. There are rumours of secret entrances; of course, we’ve never found such portals, but perhaps a few more men at the gates..._  
          It was plausible enough. I ran it over in my mind again quickly, pulled the hatch back into place, rose, turned — and nearly ran into Philip Mark.  
          “Gisburne?” he asked, and he did not look entertained. “What have we here?”  
          There was nothing I could do except scramble back to my knees.  
          “I found this, my lord. Standing open. A passage of some kind,” I said hurriedly, again tugging open the door. “You see? I was coming to tell you—“  
          He peered in, and his eyes narrowed. “Leave it, and come with me.” He offered a hand to assist me. I waved it aside and stood up.  
          “Don’t look so _concerned_ , my dear,” Mark said. “It only heightens the thrill of the chase.” He looked at me oddly, gazing from head to toe, very slowly. “Always savour a challenge, Sir Guy; it makes the victory far more pleasurable.” Then he grabbed my cheeks with firm hands and kissed me roughly. And while I still staggered from the blow, he smiled, turned, and gestured for me to follow him.  
          Like a dog, I trotted after him, hating it. Hating whatever in me prompted Mark to behave this way. As if I were a dumb beast whose leash he held.  
          But I had to ignore it and keep moving, because Mark began shouting orders to the Guard. They obeyed, with an efficiency I hadn’t known them capable of, and within minutes, Robin Hood and his rabble had been found and delivered into our grasp.  
          And with them, Robert de Rainault. Bedraggled, irritatingly defiant, and God help us all, ( _God help me!_ ) alive. He fumed as he looked at Mark.  
          But Mark didn't even notice him. Mark was focusing on _me_. "You've done well, Gisburne. I'm very pleased with you.”  
          I smirked and eyed de Rainault pointedly. _You hear that, you ungrateful toad?!_ In two minutes Mark had shown me more favour than de Rainault had in more than a decade.  
          Then Mark circled around me and suggested in a deeper voice, “You must show me this tunnel of yours.”  
          His remark puzzled me, and I tilted my gaze to him; had Mark not seen the passageway only moments before? But the so-called 'Merry Men' looked gleeful, and not at all confused. I heard one of them clear his throat as if restraining a laugh. Mark's furs rustled as he walked past me, and then I suddenly realised what those filthy-minded heathens thought.  
          For the second time, I wished I'd vanished into the passageway without a trace, and let Nottingham and its nonsense go to the dogs, with my honour intact. Thank God that everyone who'd heard that comment would soon be dead.  
          “As for you, de Rainault—”  
          “I led them in here, my lord,” he announced clearly.  
          De Rainault could still perplex me, even from his downfallen state. Why did he admit responsibility? He could have argued that they took him in Sherwood and tortured knowledge of the passage from him.  
          “I was aware of that,” Mark sighed. He sounded bored, but why? What didn't I understand?  
          “And together, Gisburne and I captured Robin Hood,” he dared.  
          It was such an obvious lie that even I could have unraveled it; the wolfsheads, too, looked surprised. What was he doing? ( _Together?_ )  
          “Without me—” the former Sheriff continued.  
          “You led them in here,” Mark breathed. “You were banished, and you _led them in here_.”  
          Oh, I knew that tone. ( _“I insist.”_ ) De Rainault was provoking Mark's ire, powerless though he was. And he'd die — again — if he didn't quiet down. But silence from Robert de Rainault was about as likely as repentance from the thugs assembled next to him.  
          “You amaze me, de Rainault,” Mark tsked, sounding more furious than amazed. “The way you've compounded your incompetence with treason.”  
          “Treason?”  
          _Treason!_ I thought bitterly. _You bold fool, whatever you were playing — it won’t work now, will it?_  
          “Lock him up. I'll deal with him later.” Mark's order was law here, and though my former master protested loudly — not surprisingly — they took him easily, and I smiled that they'd finally shut his mouth; he might just survive the week if he stopped talking. ( _He is here. Not in Sherwood!_ )  
          ( _He knew. All this time, he knew. And told me nothing!_ )  
          I didn't hear the commands that followed, didn't comprehend the departing prisoners, just dumbly stared at the door through which the guards and de Rainault had disappeared. I finally emerged from my distraction when Mark poked Huntingdon's chin. “—then you'll face Sarak,” he decreed.  
          I grinned in earnest then, and put Nottingham's dungeons far from my thoughts; the outlaws would meet Sarak and his unerring blade, and theirs would be a short and futile fight. This, at least, was going perfectly according to plan.  
          Mark turned back to me with a smile. “Come, Gisburne,” he said, indicating the exit. We strolled together, and I matched his narrower step, careful not to walk ahead of him.  
          “Your de Rainault is proving quite a bother,” he said, touching his chin in thought.  
          I ignored the possessive _your_. “Yes, my lord.”  
          “Fortunately, he'll soon be the King's problem. He'll have to answer for his treachery.”  
          “Of course, my lord, but...I doubt he'll cooperate,” I offered hesitantly.  
          Mark seemed delighted to hear it. “I'm sure I can persuade him. Tell me, Gisburne,” and he put an arm around my shoulders so that I walked awkwardly, leaning to him. “De Rainault has a nephew living here, in the castle?”  
          I responded without thinking. “Yes, my lord. Martin, son of his late brother Edward.”  
          “Excellent,” Mark replied. “I think that _Uncle Robert_ would say anything to keep his nephew from the service of a...now, what did he call me in that little tantrum? A 'posturing catamite,' was it?”  
          “I—” _Oh my God._ “I believe so, my lord.”  
          _My God, my God._ I had no qualms involving families in the persuasion of criminals, but this was different, this was a child and not a—a.... _Hugo, I'll send the boy to Hugo_...  
          “Well, here we are,” and he stopped expectantly outside of his room, and again put his hands up to my face. “You'll come in?”  
          _No...no, I will not!_ “My lord, I—” What would please him? “I left my cloak and a few adornments in my own chambers; I should finish preparing myself. It's important to honour this...occasion appropriately.”  
          “Very good, my dear,” he said with a wolfish grin. “Then take my regard as your proudest adornment.” It was some minstrel's song, and he quoted it very badly. But I couldn't correct him — not the way I rolled my eyes at de Rainault for the same offense — even if I had been free to speak, which I wasn't, because his tongue began to explore my mouth.  
          Oh, Lord forgive me, he was a man — and a terrible man, I knew it beyond denial — but it had been too long since _that_ sort of regard. Again I was drunk, on affection, on praise; God help me, I even shot a taunting thought to de Rainault about _appreciation_ —  
          But before poisonous temptation could creep in further, I remembered _Martin_ de Rainault, and froze.  
          Finally Mark released me, and turned away with a smile whose intentions I couldn't ignore, and then disappeared behind the door like a snake slithering into a hole.  
          I shuddered.  
          I had never approved of the English habit of bathing. Water was too unpredictable for such waste; it was for drinking and quenching fire, not to be spent on flesh, which was properly cleansed with oil and steel. But how I wanted then a hot full tub and a scrubbing-sponge, to scour away every bit of his evil touch and the smoky scent that still clung to me.  
          I must watch the execution. Then I would send Martin to safety. Then I could go to Chester if I chose — perhaps even rescue de Rainault from his 'treason,' if he made it worth my time — but I would have to decide, before Philip Mark had the passage sealed.  
          _Did you just make a **plan** , Gisburne?_ came de Rainault's sarcastic voice in my mind.  
          _Shut up!!_ I thought, as I went to get my cape, and how I longed for the earlier morning, when the colours I wore had been my most urgent concern!


	5. Trial by Combat

          So it was that less than a candlemark later, I sat at Mark's left, with de Giscard placed to his right, and I am certain that the three of us were very impressive to view. I slouched comfortably in my chair — placing my head lower than Mark's — and I was subdued by excitement, perhaps a little concern, tainted still with God-rotting Eastern wine that made my eyes shrink from the noon-day light.  
          But I studied Mark carefully; I would learn what gave him that commanding air. Because when the Lord High Sheriff Philip Mark of Nottinghamshire stood, a sudden hush fell, and he made his announcement to a small crowd of castle-folk who strained to hear his every word. I had never witnessed that kind of respect here!  
          “Robin Hood has been sentenced to die,” Mark proclaimed. The sun shone brightly on his shoulders. “But I give him one chance.”  
          One chance, only one, and how I hoped he would hurry it up!  
          “You see that crossbow?” he continued, addressing that blasted traitorous nobleman with more courtesy than he deserved. “Use it to kill my man, and you and your men go free. Do you understand?”  
          It was so much more grace than those wolfsheads warranted, I am still surprised they didn't fall on their faces in gratitude.  
          “Good,” he instructed. “Untie him.”  
          A guardsman stepped forward immediately and cut Robin Hood's bonds. Sarak drew his sword, I clenched a fist—  
          —and without any warning sign, it was the man without a face who brought down Philip Mark of Lincolnshire. When Robin ducked, and Sarak threw his sword, the sword that should have cut right through the criminal's heart and ended all of this stupidity—  
          —instead, the blade entered Mark's body and lodged there.  
          I jumped to my feet in shock, all trace of delight gone as if it had never been. _Christ—!_  
          Mark gasped, and I looked down at him. The wound was mortal; I could see it clearly. There was nothing I could do!  
          “Sarak!” Mark cried in a breaking voice.  
          The covered killer pulled off his veiling to reveal, not Mark's Saracen, but Robin Hood's — Nasir, disguised as Sarak!  
          Mark, having seen the outlaw's face, collapsed.  
          And Robin, who held the loaded crossbow, pointed it at me.  
          I knew it was useless to run. Only a coward ran from his own death. Somehow I kept the presence of mind to touch my chest, the cross I still wore. I still take small, cold comfort in that knowledge.  
          “Robin! On the stairs!” shouted the simpleton, drawing all of our eyes to one of my men. One of my—  
          Christ, _Lucien_.  
          Robin shot him through the heart without a moment's pause.  
          Anger shot through me. Two Sheriffs, now destroyed—  
          —and the only man they'd had in common was _me._  
          I, who owed my life to a yelling half-wit.  
          The humiliation, the utter failure of it all was unbearable, and completely unjustifiable. The outlaws now held a blade to Hubert de Giscard, but if he survived and returned to the king with word of this—  
          I drew my sword, leaped from the dais, and fell upon Robin Hood with all of my strength. Damn him, damn all of the rabble who was turning what should have been my finest moment into a miserable fracas!  
          I wrenched the crossbow from the outlaw's hand. The force of it shook my sword from my grip, so I grabbed Huntingdon and threw him onto a table behind him. I would choke the life out of him if that was what it took!  
          But he was stronger than he looked, and fierce. He hauled me off of him and shoved me away, and I fell — pitifully, over construction materials, which built the very dais from which I'd gazed so proudly moments before.  
          It only made me despise the wolfshead more. I struggled to my feet.  
          As I stood, Robin Hood put an ugly, vicious fist into my face. The punch slammed me backwards into the castle's north wall, and the impact knocked the breath out of me.  
          He pushed me again, and again I fell, and then I knew only the blackness of water and the blackness behind my eyelids and the utter darkness that such a bright day — which indeed had been ideal for an execution — had brought me.  
          When I came to my senses, I was crumpled on the ground before a wash-trough, choking on dirty water. I could hear the fading sounds of boots striking the earth and voices shouting: the rebels fleeing from the castle.  
          Disaster, once more, and I wanted to scream at the dishonour of it. And Mark...Mark was dead...and I was disgraced, when I could have risen far above deputy, if only I'd been able—  
          Clicking steps, raising dust around me, abruptly cut off my hate-filled thoughts, and I looked up. Two soldiers, whom I'd never seen before, flanked a man who was haloed in the sun, whose face I couldn't make out. Then he spoke, and his growl was all too familiar.  
          “Gisburne!” exclaimed Abbot Hugo de Rainault. “What in _Hell_ has happened here?!”


	6. Fire and Water

          When at last I reached the part about the dungeon, Hugo laughed incredulously; when he realised that I wasn't jesting, he turned heel and went striding through the courtyard towards Nottingham's prisons, kicking baskets and even animals aside as he moved. I ran after him and started to protest the King's justice, the Sheriff's verdict.  
          Then Hugo stopped, lightning-fast, and fixed me with a menacing look that threatened excommunication and the torments of Hell if I continued. So I said nothing more, only followed him on rushing feet to the dungeons, and commanded the men on duty to free de Rainault immediately. The keyholding guard, too, started to argue and then saw the Abbot's face, and he probably opened that cell gate faster than Saint Peter could have parted the gates of Heaven.  
          “Good God,” Hugo muttered as he looked down below. Then he straightened and pointed southward. “You. Find de Giscard and return to the audience hall. You will await us there. You will do _nothing._ ”  
          I gulped. “Yes, my lord.”  
          I fetched Hubert de Giscard, who unfortunately had endured his ordeal — I'd hoped to be rid of the fawning weasel — and now trembled like a maiden on her wedding-night; somehow, he had risen to be a messenger in the King's ranks without ever facing a weapon before. We walked quietly to the audience hall, and I stared at the murky cross-shaped light on the floor, and waited.  
          And waited, and waited. At least a candlemark we stood there, I am sure of it, de Giscard and I, with absolutely nothing to say to each other. I was still drenched with filth, and the chainmail I wore kept me miserable — not only with the discomfort of cold, wet metal rings on my flesh, but with the knowledge that I would have to dry and oil down the entire shirt later to keep the rust at bay.  
          I was half-frozen and irritated, but I would not give de Giscard the satisfaction of seeing me shiver, though it felt more like winter with every passing minute.  
          Finally the door atop the stairs opened, and I squinted against the light that streamed from the open entryway.  
          Hugo entered, quite unruffled, appropriate as always in his velvets and gold; I wondered at his smug look. Following him was another figure, and at _his_ bearing I wondered even more.  
          Though the cleric and the — former? — Sheriff walked together, it was the slighter, shorter brother whose presence seemed to fill the room. Robert de Rainault held his head high, and his dark eyes blazed like wind-touched coals. Around and behind him flowed a black gown, belted at the slim waist with gold, with pale touches of gold lace adorning the neck and wrists. I watched him advance towards us; none of his hawkish aristocracy had faded in the last two days. He didn't look defeated, or discouraged, or even mildly bothered. At first I wanted to call out a warning to anyone who was tempted to believe his regal appearance. Then I wanted to bow. Finally I realised that he wasn't looking at me at all — was, in fact, imperiously and purposely avoiding my gaze, and then I wanted to slap him and _force_ him to see me.  
          He parted his lips to speak. I should have just left then, before I could hear any of his poison; every word the man spoke came through a forked tongue. He was a scheming traitor and an unappreciative, conniving, odious snake—  
          ( _And he was alive, God, alive and returned!_ )  
          I shivered then, and allowed myself to keep shivering, because I was freezing and because de Giscard was no longer looking at me.  
          “As you can see,” de Rainault announced, in ringing and almost pleasant tones, “your attempt to deflect blame from yourself has failed.”  
          The insufferably dull hour was almost made worthwhile by the slack-jawed shock of Hubert de Giscard's face. “Bl-blame?”  
          “Well, from yourself and from Philip Mark,” he corrected, slowly ascending the steps while Hugo remained below. “However, since the latter will not be joining us to answer for his part, I'm afraid _you_ will have to suffice, de Giscard.”  
          De Giscard scoffed in reply. “Are you suggesting some sort of scheme, de Rainault? You were—”  
          The interrupting laugh was rich with scorn. “Unveiling, not suggesting. Did you seriously believe that your astonishing incompetence could somehow prevail? That you could imprison me indefinitely for _your_ crimes? Truly, de Giscard—” He circled de Giscard and the seat of office like one of his own falcons, closing on the prey. “—it's incredible. Single-handedly, I manage to lead Robin Hood and his gang into Nottingham Castle, Gisburne and I capture them, and then you, Philip Mark, and the Saracen let them walk free. I'm told that you even escorted them to the door.”  
          Why was de Rainault protecting me? But when I eyed Hugo, his shrewd smile confirmed every outlandish word that his brother uttered. And when I turned back, I saw — as if sent by a jeering God with a cruel sense of timing — fresh sunlight stream through the window, catching the glimmer of de Rainault's robes.  
          “But it wasn't like that!” cried the hapless messenger. And then he pointed in my direction, the swine! “Gisburne had the opportunity to—”  
          De Rainault cut him off coldly, and finally glanced at me, and I realised — from long, wearying experience in such matters — that he too closely resembled a vengeful king. “Oh, let's not bring Gisburne into this, shall we?” he said, with treacherous cunning. _Damn_ de Giscard, who had escaped de Rainault's anger for the moment and somehow deflected that baleful gaze onto _me!_  
          Then de Rainault seemed to search for something as he looked at my folded arms. “Ah!” he exclaimed, taking my left hand and pulling my — _his_ — jeweled ring from my finger. He slid the ring easily onto his own hand, and gave me a glare that held more fearsome warning than I'd ever seen from Mark. “Gisburne has enough to worry about _already_.”  
          I didn't wait for his dismissal. I didn't let him crow over the fear he'd evoked, the way I shook from more than the cold. I simply turned and walked away, and I think I had never hated him as much as I did just then.  
          And for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past forty-eight hours, I broke into a run as soon as I was alone, to protect my only hope of keeping my home and position secure. I burst through the door of my chambers and went to my desk, but the worn surface was bare.  
          I looked around the desk, around the mattress, even searched around my chair as if I would somehow find his belongings hiding in plain sight. But of course I wouldn't. Of course he had entered my chambers; he'd had the time, while I'd been standing in the great hall like a statue.  
          Rage flooded my body. I kicked over the chair and drove a fist into the desk's hard surface, then gasped and held my hand as agony raced through the bones. What was he plotting? What was he up to?  
          Why, God, _why_ did I have to suffer such worries anew?? How had de Rainault managed to regain his office — for I had no doubt that that was what was happening, even as I panicked here alone — despite everything?  
          I tried to calm down. He hadn't taken me for execution, after all. He hadn't banished me, or sent me away to the King, to blubber useless explanations next to de Giscard. Whatever was coming, I was alive. I was here.  
          And, I told myself firmly, I was still wet and cold and a disgrace in my appearance.  
          My hand still throbbed with pain as I searched my clean clothing. I had one light robe in the far back of the wardrobe, of simple undyed wool; I had worn it in my knight's vigil. I pulled it out and examined it, a little creased but decent. Plain, sturdy, pure, with no ornamentation, it was exactly what I wanted, nothing like the absurd finery of those prancing popinjays back in the hall.  
          I took the robe with me to the bathing-room, where I sank my entire body into the still-hot water. It was warm and soothing, kind even. My muscles began to unbind.  
          ( _“...lovely indeed.”_ )  
          I ducked my entire head under the water, where I couldn't be seen. I surely would not hear such words again.  
          For Mark had been wrong in many respects. He had rather underestimated everyone in the shire surnamed _de Rainault_ , for instance. He had been too sure of himself, too lax with the outlaws. His plan for young Martin had been vile.  
          Had his sins finally outranked even de Rainault's, in the Lord's reckoning?  
          ( _And if so, then what of mine?_ )  
          _Perhaps,_ I thought bitterly, _perhaps God reckons nothing, only laughs at our follies. Laughs at me. Laughs, like everyone._ Didn't the priests say, after all, that man was made in God's image?  
          I emerged from the water, scrubbed the traces of moisture from my skin, and donned the warm white gown, tying loosely the laces at neck and wrists. Then I sat, waiting.  
          Hugo found me only a short while later, and I followed him obediently to _those rooms_. He left me at the door and glared at me, with anything but the peace of God in his mien, then disappeared again down the corridor.  
          And then I couldn't help but feel a nagging — and worrisome — sense of repetition, as I tapped at the door in response to de Rainault's summons.


	7. Reconnaissance

          The chamber was redolent of herbs and the sweet beeswax of burning tapers, and something else, indefinable. Did gold have a fragrance? Candles glowed from every possible holder, their light both softer and somehow more sinister than torches would have been. A bright fire blazed, and the chamber was warm and again known to me, no longer made foreign by Saracen luxuries.  
          A servant stood at his shoulder. I recognised the round-faced girl whom he favoured with his baths and attire; of course she neither looked nor spoke, only remained silent and kept her eyes to the floor. There were three in this room, but I faced the lord unaided.  
          And he, _he_ faced the fire, seated in a wide, tall chair that hid most of him. I could see only the shadows of his profile, and his left hand adorned with its violet cabochon, the wrist draped in aubergine silk. Inside I quailed as I realised what he put me in mind of; hadn’t I heard the stories of the Ankou, the bone-white rider clad in the colours of the twilight sky, whose steps and voice heralded death?  
          His pale hand was the same, for as he lifted it and gestured the girl to leave us, I cowered. Another wave of that hand could send me into shackles, or worse.  
          When the door’s soft thud told me I was alone with him, he swung around and rose. Without meeting my eyes or even seeming to see me, he went to the repast-table and filled a cup of wine for himself. He offered me none; I asked none. He took a long drink. And then he looked at me, and I saw that he was not only drunk, but had the brooding, simmering sort of intoxication that left broken bones and embedded knives in its wake.  
          “Not a word of welcome, Gisburne?” he drawled. “I’m almost disappointed.”  
          “My lord, I _am_ — that is, I—“ I couldn’t think of how exactly to say the thoughts that I could barely form.  
          “I said _almost_ , man; I don’t need you to sour the air with platitudes!” He again filled the empty cup and then paced away from me. As I followed his retreating form, I saw the tunic, the other things that he’d had removed from my quarters, resting atop his writing desk. His eyes went to them, then to me. But he said not a word about them, and I didn’t dare to offer.  
          “Well,” he wheedled. “I won’t bother to ask what transpired in my absence. Or how my chambers came to be remade into some sort of Turkish boy- _harim_ , though the Church may have a few questions for the King about his appointments in Lincolnshire.”  
          I sighed, relieved for a moment; anger at Mark I could endure.  
          Then de Rainault opened his hand to display a key, the same which I had used here the day before, and went smoothly to the money-chest as he spoke. “But since you took such a keen interest in my possessions, Gisburne, perhaps you would care to explain one further...discrepancy.” He turned the key in the lock, opened the chest, and I crossed the room to peer inside. It was empty.  
          I looked up, and when I saw his inflamed gaze, I could almost feel a noose closing around my neck. I wish I could say that I confronted his anger with dignity and wit. But I was so shocked that the words wouldn’t come.  
          He looked at me with sly bemusement. “Come now, Gisburne.”  
          “N-no, my lord. I swear to you, I know nothing—”  
          “ _That_ fact wasn't in question," he sneered. "Then you took nothing from here, hmm?”  
          “No, my lord!” I exclaimed in a panic. The bag of coin had been there when I departed; I knew it had! I started rifling my memories, to figure who else besides Mark might have been there, or if Mark himself might have sent the money away to Lincolnshire.  
          He reached up and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Now why don’t I believe you, Gisburne?” I looked at his hand — his _left_ hand. The one wearing the _ring_ —  
          De Rainault smiled as I realised my mistake. My eyes widened with terror; he swept past me, proud and aloof and, if possible, even angrier than before. “If I can rely upon anything, it isn’t your _loyalty_ ,” he spat. “Neither your homage nor your respect.” A bitter chuckle punctuated his next words. “But your avarice, ah yes. I can always rely upon your greed, for pay and position and anything else you can grab out from under my nose.” Then he took a gulp of the wine and looked darkly back at me. “I suppose I have you to thank for sending my message to Hugo, and for draining my treasury dry as well. Really, _Sir Guy_ , I’m surprised you didn’t begin ransacking my chambers while I still _occupied_ them.”  
          _God!_ The scroll had been a hue-and-cry and not his last testament at all; of course, for how else could Hugo have known to search him out? And de Rainault had left the message for me to find, baited with a jewel, in the one place he was certain I would look. Despite the comfortably warm chamber, my skin prickled with a cold sweat. How did he anticipate me, yet understand me not at all?  
          And now, having fulfilled his predictions in every other respect, I had no proof against this final accusation.  
          I remembered, with sudden nausea, the inviting glimmer of the few coins I’d taken. “Ten,” I gasped hoarsely, and held out my purse in a shaking hand. “I took ten of them, my lord. I gave one to the messenger...to St. Mary’s...” He snatched it from me angrily and threw it on the desk, where it landed with a clash next to those other things, the possessions I had never deciphered. He set down his wine cup, braced his hands on the desk and looked down, with his back to me. I ventured to speak again. “My lord—“  
          “You dare to call me _your lord_ after compounding your betrayal with thievery and deception?!” he roared, turning on me. “The common bandit shows his face to the man he robs, Gisburne! But you, _my vassal_ , who did nothing when they dragged me to Sherwood, where I would _still remain_ if not for my own wits, you _dare_ —“  
          “ _My lord!_ ” I shouted, as deference gave way to defiance, as I realised I had to fight for my life or else be crushed in de Rainault’s fist. “You saw Sarak, clearly as I did! Had I refused Mark, I'd have won a bolt in the back for it!”  
          He turned away before I'd finished speaking; I saw the pitcher shake as he poured still more wine. “Indeed,” he said evenly. “I suppose only a patch of barren Welsh dirt could drive you to _that._ ”  
          I had almost forgotten how cruelly he could fight; hadn’t I already suffered enough for failing King Richard’s commands? The scar between my shoulders still chewed at me sometimes. Evidently de Rainault had not forgotten the incident, either.  
          Then the Sheriff’s sharp tongue cut off my recollections, and I lost whatever coherent thought I’d managed. His voice was lethally calm. “Perhaps I should humour you, Gisburne, since you’re so eager to benefit from the _privileges_ afforded the Sheriff of Nottingham. You could take my place in the castle dungeons.” He looked pointedly at the empty money-chest. “And the torturers could discover the whereabouts of my coin.”  
          “Please, my lord—“ I was desperate. “I don’t _know!_ ” And how pitiful it sounded, even to me. “I left the key to Philip Mark! And there were guards, servants, who came here—“  
          “Really, Gisburne, I thought you capable of some small measure of _reason_ ,” he snapped.  
          I fell silent. Mark’s belongings — Mark himself — had been removed. The guards who’d spirited de Rainault away to Sherwood had surely hung for it. If the coin had been found with any of them, I wouldn’t be facing interrogation for it.  
          So I put my eyes to the floor and stared at my own feet. I was digging my own grave with every word; there was nothing I could say.  
          He roughly, painfully grasped my chin. “As steward and deputy, you are responsible. _You,_ Gisburne. Not Mark or the guards or the God-cursed serving-maids! The sum in that chest was six hundred marks, and I want it _returned_.”  
          My mind reeled frantically. I couldn’t gather such a fortune if I sold everything I owned.  
          He searched my face for what seemed an eternity.  
          “You will either hand it back to me or _earn_ it back, Gisburne,” he commanded. “Every ounce of it. From the salary you would have drawn.”  
          The measure of his wrath was years of my service.  
          But he hadn’t killed me yet. I was still alive. I was still here.  
          “That is,” he growled, releasing me with a push, “if I can trust that Mark’s man won’t run a sword through me while I sleep.” He sipped from the wine cup, glaring at me, and his leer left no doubt of his meaning when he named me _Mark’s man_.  
          How I hated my own cheeks for the fiery blood they showed too clearly! He saw my fierce blush and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, Gisburne, surely Mark _found a use_ for you, after announcing his intentions so boldly.” His smile was far worse than a scowl. "And you pushed past me quite eagerly to reach his side, as I recall. Why now this facetious shyness?"  
          I remembered the scent of smoke and the humiliating looks and the coarse attentions that Mark forced upon me, and I was infuriated; I turned away so quickly that I could hear wind rush past my ears.  
          My lord calmly drank wine — God, how much could the man hold? — and watched me tremble with rage. He circled me, eyed my face, and then his stare changed: confused, disbelieving, then sly.  
          He set down the wine-cup without looking; it tottered and fell, and wine splashed, and he paid it no heed as he stepped forward. Again he lifted his hand, the hand bearing the stone I’d so admired, and this time he touched his palm to my cheek — as Mark had done, yet so differently — and he looked at me, as he had not in the audience hall, or at all since his return.  
          I barely knew where I was, or even who I was, as I leaned into that caress and felt his other hand encircle my neck. I lifted my own hands to touch his, and my eyes fluttered shut—  
          And then there came a stinging shock of pain that nearly knocked me down, and tore a cry from my breath.  
          I opened my eyes, my hands protecting my face, and I could already feel the flesh swelling from his furious backhand. De Rainault stood over me, and something fine dangled from his fingertips, winking in the firelight.  
          His eyes were cold and hooded. I had never witnessed what I saw in him that moment.  
          He held the cross which he’d torn from my neck. The pendant had escaped my robe as I spun away from him...the cross that I had completely _forgotten_.  
          “Leave, Gisburne,” he said dully. “Get out of here. Now.”  
          I wanted to cry out in protest; I wanted to somehow explain how it had truly been. I wanted to shake his shoulders and beg him to listen to me and tell him why I had taken it, how I’d wondered about it — how I had worn it, and thought I was going to die —  
          ( _“If I can rely upon anything...your avarice, ah yes.”_ )  
          I wanted him to admit he was wrong about me, wrong about everything—  
          ( _Look at me...Robert, **damn** you, look at me!_ )  
          But I was defeated, conquered before I could even speak; what my words could not purchase, my servitude must. The door slammed shut behind me as I stumbled out, and it was a pronouncement, a sentence.  
          Yet it wasn’t the worst sound of the entire ordeal. That came after, in the utter silence that followed. For, as desperately as I wanted to redeem myself in my lord’s eyes, he was equally determined to see and hear nothing of me.  
          For the next twenty-eight days, I roamed Nottingham alone in a kind of castle-wide imprisonment, from which neither Robert de Rainault nor any other occupant deigned to notice me. If I entered a room where the Sheriff sat, he ignored me. If I tried to speak to him, he simply picked up his materials and relocated. Even the servants walked away from me, as if my wishes were sudden breezes that blew past their ears without effect.  
          I heard no voices, no commands. I had nothing to do and — though I was still in name the deputy of the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire — was assigned not a single task.  
          I wandered the castle, searching stone to stone until I was completely certain that no other passage existed. Then I spent so much time riding that even I grew saddlesore, and finally, enough candlemarks in the stables that even Fury — proud, spoiled Fury — seemed weary of me.  
          I hated de Rainault for my solitude. Even more, I hated myself for deserving every moment of it.  
          Then one night, I went to the hall — provisions, at least, were not denied me, and wine was a much-needed balm — and there he sat. I saw his glance flicker from his inkwell to me and back again. I started to carry my cup away, and was stopped by a sudden “Gisburne.”  
          I didn’t dare to turn around. “My lord?”  
          “Stay.”  
          I obeyed, slumping onto the bench with an indifferent pose. I looked into my cup, and clamped down my will over the pathetic hope that threatened to burst and rush into my eyes. He didn’t speak again, so I simply rested in his presence, his silence that had become an invitation rather than a dismissal. I stared at the bright wine as if it held fascinating secrets, and it was a long while before I trusted myself to look at him.  
          At a word. A single word.  
          It was small wonder that I still, from time to time, suspected that Robert de Rainault knew more of sorcery than he admitted.


	8. In Check

          Thus I ceased to be the ghost of Nottingham Castle and resumed my life as a knight. I again woke to grey dawns, punctuated by the whickers of drowsing horses and the impatient shouts of my name — and sometimes I considered making my bed on the audience hall's table, to shorten the distance between the morning orders and my ears — and then rode out for long days of work, my sword ever-ready. Except now I drew no pay for my efforts, gained nothing except my lord's ire, which seemed beyond measure.  
          Perhaps I'd been forgiven, but that night was never forgotten. Even many months after, I heard danger in de Rainault's voice as he re-counted the ransom to be paid for young Martin. “Are you questioning my honour—” I’d asked testily.  
          “Your honour? No, no, just your ability to _count,_ ” he'd quipped back, and I knew we both remembered the ten coins that had exacted a much higher price.  
          Might de Rainault have replied differently if he'd known of Mark's plans for Martin, and the way I'd planned to aid the last of his own bloodline?  
          I didn't tell him. I didn't dare to remind him of Philip Mark. Instead, I reminded myself, again and again, how fortunate I was to be alive, in service even, though my lord believed me a traitor.  
          But every now and then, I forgot my good fortune. When I saw the indolent new guardsmen restraining yawns at my orders, I remembered how the men had run to obey Mark. In my cups I looked at de Rainault, and relished daydreams of throwing the wine into his face and demanding my reinstatement, the recompense and regard due my service and my innocence. I wanted to scream it at him, shout that he surely knew I had never stolen that coin, bludgeon the knowledge into his thick skull. I stood a head taller than he; I could do it. I could hold a blade to his throat before he could summon a single guard. I knew where he laid his head at night!  
          And then I would see de Rainault's eyes shining darkly, like a burning woodfire; I'd resolve to confess all, until I remembered Hugo's furious judgments before even knowing my faults, and I faltered again and again, the words I wanted to say unspoken. And I saw the cross in my memory, and wondered that a cross, of all things, had cost me so dearly.  
          This is how things were, when Queen Hadwisa came to me — she a deposed wife, I a deposed vassal, each of us as desperate as the other. She offered me the complete payment of my debts without asking their amount, and a sum even beyond that, and the freedom to go wherever I wished without persecution or condemnation. I thought that it was the hand of God reaching down a blessing at last, and so I trusted Him to care for de Rainault — I even told my lord of my plan, to stay his thoughts of betrayal — and then I departed Nottingham, to commit an assassination that could redeem two lives.  
          A knight had to know the exceptions to the commandment against murder, and they surely included a twelve-year-old trollop who had seduced and bewitched a king. The royal blood could not be sullied by base illegitimacy; there could be no “divorce” for the ruler of a nation! So the plan was pure, and perfect.  
          Until those God-cursed godless filthy outlaws be-fouled it. Somehow, those repulsive dogs protected the strumpet, first from the arrow that should have killed her, and then by murdering the successor I would have put in her place. They left me no choice — me, a respectable man and more honest than they knew — I had to kneel before a child-harlot while she spat in my face, in a chapel filled with devout Christian folk. Those people smiled and nudged each other as the girl swept past me, and I could see that my name would again be known and whispered and mocked by men. (And man indeed was made by the design of a mocking God; how had I not heard His laughter in Hadwisa's voice?!)  
          I fell into a fever after this, and then there was more talk that reached my ears as I lay a-bed, near-delirious with dread and rage. Gisburne the futile, the contemptible. Guy of Good-for-nothing. _He’s wide of the mark,_ they scoffed, gesturing at their foreheads, speaking of me as though I were beyond comprehension. I chortled when they said this, wide of the _mark_ ; I was the only one who laughed.  
          Worse still it became, when the Sheriff rose from his own sickbed to claim me. Then they called me the other names. Sir Ganymede. Guy the Gosling. Oh, I heard them, those vulgar epithets I loathed, that were never forgotten.  
          Somehow de Rainault found the right words to free me, convincing them that Hadwisa had threatened my life to lead me astray. And then he took me home, and I was still alive, but sick at heart. When at last I saw Nottingham's walls again, I wanted to crawl into a wine-cask, and never again leave the warm hall with its smooth benches, the ridicule I knew instead of the contempt that awaited me outside, the debt I understood instead of the currency of God who traded in lives.  
          But this time, Robert de Rainault had amply wearied of tongues wagging in his shire. He didn't wait a full lunar month, or even a full day, to show his anger and to decide my fate.  
          He was my liege. It was his right.  
          I told myself that, even as he tore me apart.


	9. The Third Way to Win

_Má bhíonn tú liom, bí liom._  
(If you're with me, be with me.)  
—Clannad, from _Farewell Love_.

          Robert de Rainault sat calmly, writing. He had decided many destinies from this desk, had ordered countless eyes removed and hands severed and souls parted from bodies. Here he had examined the Silver Arrow of Herne the Hunter, held the golden Great Seal of the Knights Templar, and written answer to the orders of the King of England. By comparison, the fate of one knight was no great thing. So the tremor of his fingertips was barely perceptible, and the water, wine, and ink all flowed freely, as he completed the last sentence of this document. He shook powder over his finished scribe-work and rolled the page tightly. Then he looked up at the knight, who waited nervously to learn why he had been summoned — understandable, after the debacle for which he had so recently been responsible.  
          “Sir Guy of Gisburne,” he pronounced with due formality. “I've ordered you here to release you from your oath of homage. I grant you freedom from your debt, as well as permission to leave Nottinghamshire and serve another liege." Then he clamped the seal of Nottingham over a glob of sealing-wax and held out the completed document to Gisburne.  
          The knight was utterly bewildered. "M-my lord." His blank face evidenced a complete lack of understanding.  
          "Your severance, sir knight," clarified de Rainault. A certain dull satisfaction filled the Sheriff, as horror crossed Gisburne's face — a brief second of vindication, before that mask of sullen indifference dropped again. His next words were anything but courteous. "When I accepted your oath, I told you that you'd serve me until I no longer had need. Well, I don't. Not any longer." He shook the document lightly, willing Gisburne to take it.  
          "But...why?" Gisburne blurted out, certainly without appropriate formality.  
          It was perhaps to the Sheriff's credit that he did not laugh in the face of his soon-to-be-ex-deputy. "Surely you understand my reasons.”  
          But the wide-eyed knight gave no acknowledgement, and de Rainault sighed. He had not anticipated that this would require an explanation. “A knight's sword is supposed to confer protection, Gisburne. Yet it seems that yours is my greatest liability, since it falls to _me_ to resolve the crises _you_ create — with alarming regularity, and at serious cost both to this castle's treasury and its reputation." He rose shakily and approached the faltering knight. "To cite a single obvious example of your incompetence: you once promised me the head of Robin Hood, did you not? After your many failures, that outlaw perished through my cunning alone. And since that spoiled noble brat has replaced him, you've allowed his escape more times than I can count. Only once was he caught, by _my_ designs, and I then kept _you_ from becoming a scapegoat after your guardsmen let him loose!” De Rainault's voice was near-shouting now; his lungs burned with effort, and yet there was so much to say that he was surprised by his own restraint. “Tell me, Gisburne: if I'm performing your offices, _and_ unraveling the predicaments in which you routinely entangle me — including this recent fiasco, which could have put _both_ our heads on the chopping block! — then _why_ exactly do I retain you?"  
          He had never intended to say so much, nor with such bile. Deep down, de Rainault knew the deputy deserved more from him than an angry tirade; he could see the answering guilt and fury, the hurt in Gisburne's expression. But strangely, there was also panic in the younger man's eyes, not the relief de Rainault had expected in reply. And Gisburne still hadn't taken the parchment from him.  
          "God's teeth," de Rainault muttered, trying to recover his poise. "It's a proclamation of your right to serve any lord you wish, and more money than you've probably ever held in your life. There's no trick in it, Gisburne."  
          It was mostly true. He didn't add that the purse held the knight's accumulated wages from the last three years. He didn't reveal that the money-chest had never been pilfered, that he'd hidden the coins himself, to profit from Philip Mark's costly incompetence — and, more importantly, to force the knight's honesty, his loyal and unquestioning service, his continued residence in Nottingham. In the end, even that brilliant gamble had amounted to nothing, so what did it matter?  
          Perhaps it was cruel; well, _life_ was cruel — as Gisburne had amply demonstrated — and the Sheriff had reached his limits with this latest _incident_. Gisburne had demonstrated neither the brains to think through an absurd power play, nor the decency to remain within earshot of his lord's _deathbed_ , instead of riding into an obvious trap! De Rainault had indulged the knight's dangerous ambitions beyond all reasonable endurance, and the entire shire knew it.  
          Gisburne's mouth opened, then closed, with words that wouldn't come; the steward looked like a new-caught fish, and his dumbfounded face was exasperating. The Sheriff had expected Gisburne to grab for his freedom and ride out of Nottingham Castle singing. But Gisburne seemed cowed and shaken, and the look of turmoil in his blue eyes angered de Rainault even more. What was the knight trying to settle his little mind upon, now — which of the serving wenches to throw over his horse on his way out? "Get out of here, Gisburne!" de Rainault exclaimed suddenly.  
          Then came that annoying chin raise that Robert knew and loathed so well, and an equally annoying response. "I cannot, my lord."  
          "Whyever not?" the Sheriff inquired, with more than a tinge of sarcasm; no knight could argue against his own dismissal.  
          "I gave my word," Gisburne countered. "And indeed, I have not caught the outlaws — yet."  
          "Don't be stupid," de Rainault retorted, a little too quickly. "Even if Robin i'the Hood were delivered to the dungeons trussed, gagged, and unconscious, I've no doubt you'd discover a way to set him free. I don’t need your pompous declarations or your peculiar breed of ‘loyalty.’" The knight actually recoiled at that. "Oh, don't look so stricken, Gisburne. You sold me quickly enough when you found the Baron de Bellême's fortune, didn't you? And when Hadwisa offered you flattery — and coin, I've no doubt — you left me to die while you galloped away to make a name for yourself! Or when you fancied that Jewish harlot’s plaits, or the yellow hair of that 'sorceress' in Elsdon, even when the Butcher of Lincolnshire made eyes at you — it's always so simple to turn upon me! _Isn't it_ , Gisburne?" He hadn’t wanted the words to tumble out so savagely. But there it was, and Gisburne’s defensiveness came quickly.  
          "It wasn't like that, any of it!" cried the knight, flushing deeply. His eyes flashed like pale jewels. "My lord, I—"  
          "Whatever it _was_ , Gisburne," the Sheriff broke in, "it doesn't matter. In my position I cannot afford to care what you think or even what you say. You reflect upon me by what you _do_. And your _doing_ is to whore out your loyalty, to everyone save the man entitled to it. Even in dismissing you, I receive argument against my generosity!"  
          "Generosity!" Gisburne exploded. "You falsely accuse me of others' crimes, belittle me before any person with ears — you ignore everything I do that _doesn’t_ involve Robin Hood! This entire country believes me an incompetent fool, and it's your doing!"  
          "Gisburne." The Sheriff's icy calm was frightening. "I know your grievances; God knows I've heard them enough. Yet for all of your words against me, I have never thrown you to the wolves outside these walls, as you've so eagerly done with me. Your imported _whine_ has cost me all too dearly.“ He again held out the paper, made the coins clink softly in their casing. “Take it. Just take it, and leave me.” He wasn't sure if he bade or begged the knight's retreat; either way, he didn't care to know. So he waited, and glowered, and left unspoken the _before I change my mind_ of his own weakness.  
          But the steward, maddeningly, still faltered. Was it be possible that Gisburne — after endless complaints at every opportunity — could actually be hesitating to leave? It seemed utterly outrageous. Perhaps the arrogant fool wanted the pride of choosing to depart, rather than being commanded. That was fine, de Rainault conceded; he would play to Gisburne's sensibilities if it would absent the knight from Nottingham Castle with greater expedition. And he remembered well what would needle the man.  
          "Gisburne, _unlike_ Philip Mark, I've no interest in dealings with spineless children. A man is capable of decision without pouting and pitching fits. Make up your mind, if you indeed have one, and stop wasting my time." This mutual pointless charade — as if they didn't both already know Gisburne's wishes — was wearing on his nerves.  
          A few moments passed, silent of converse; they only heard the harsh snapping of twigs on the fire, the crackles and sputters as they were devoured, Gisburne's harsh breaths. The Sheriff had not yet recovered his full strength after the vicious wound of weeks before, and grew increasingly weary with every valuable minute that passed. Yet what happened next was enough to jolt him awake.  
          For it was rare that anything, or anyone, surprised Robert de Rainault, who was ingenious enough to foresee most events, and jaded enough to resign himself to the rest. And it was almost inconceivable that his steward — whose years in residence had made his looks and tones a language that de Rainault read easily — could be the source of any unexpected revelation.  
          But then Sir Guy of Gisburne dropped shakily to one knee, and when he lifted his head, the supplication and misery in his countenance stunned de Rainault. Gisburne reached up to the hand that proferred his own dismissal, but instead of snatching up his prize and bolting, he took de Rainault's wrist and turned it over. Then he touched his lips to the seal of office resting upon the Sheriff's third finger.  
          The humility of the act sent de Rainault into a paroxysm of indignation at the deputy's presumption. How had Gisburne the gall to behave as if the decision were _his_ , or pretend that he would actually choose Nottinghamshire if he could? The Sheriff snatched away his hand and raised his arm, to strike the knight, to ward off the man's deference and so protect them both—  
          But Gisburne didn't shrink away. He stayed, motionless, asking nothing — except through his eyes, which were an open plea.  
          De Rainault looked at the kneeling man and felt a strange, wild amusement that drained away his anger; another few moments, and he would begin laughing like a fool. "Oh, get up, Gisburne," he growled harshly. "You look like a goat going to slaughter; it's absurd."  
          The younger man rose, with a trace of his habitual insolence at the fresh insult. Then Gisburne looked at de Rainault for a long time; he seemed to have no idea what to say, not that this was a startling development.  
          It was a touching moment, perhaps, but after everything he had endured from the impulsive knight, de Rainault couldn't trust his position, his fortune, his very life to a single sentimental gesture. He considered, and a vicious answer teased and tempted his thoughts — a plan he'd considered once before, though swiftly discarded, after his deputy's devotion had been proven by ordeal...  
          The Sheriff spoke quickly then, allowing neither memory nor misgiving to undermine his cunning solution. "Gisburne."  
          Guy answered immediately. "My lord?"  
          "Next time, I won't hesitate to betray you in kind," de Rainault warned. "And I can make certain that you lose _everything_."  
          The knight stiffened. “What do you mean?”  
          Then Robert smiled, and his smile was a trap.  
          “Before I resolved to send you away, Gisburne, it did occur to me that I first knew you by another name. A nobleman pretending to be an ordinary hired sword. Isn’t it fascinating, how you suffered no ill effects from your little subterfuge? A serf would have been hanged if it had happened the other way around.”  
          The colour drained from Gisburne completely. “My lord, you...can’t mean that. You couldn’t—”  
          “Couldn’t I, Gisburne?” the Sheriff cut in. “Your mother and so-called _father_ reside no more among the living. And your...shall we say, _other_ parent has not stepped forward, hmm?”  
          He mixed wine and water in his glass and then took a much-needed draught; he did not offer a drink to the knight, since Gisburne appeared as though he would choke on it. “Of course I know, Gisburne,” he said, a bit more gently. “And I don't care. I don't care what wretched beings produced you. I care that you not _behave_ like an accident of birth.”  
          “Yet I'm told that, in Wickham, you kept the company of low-born Brabançon mercenaries. I still have Hugo’s letter confirming it — that you embraced them in friendship, and invited them to ride roughshod over the King’s subjects,” de Rainault chided. “And Elsdon — well,” he mused, with a small chuckle, “I’m certain the people of Elsdon would receive me quite hospitably if I offered them a chance at revenge. Two villages of serfs, ready to swear any story as truth...” He raised a suggestive eyebrow at the still knight. “Perhaps _Guy de Gisborne_ really died years ago, in Normandy. And a peasant boy took his name, hoping to avoid discovery of his foolhardy charade.” He shook his head in a mockery of regret. “It would explain the lad’s maniacal ambition, and his many errors as the Sheriff of Nottingham’s protégé.”  
          “Of course,” he continued, with false magnamity, “perhaps the Gisborne heir was murdered, in which case you'd surely hang. But I might be merciful, and present it as an accident, a fortunate chance.”  
          “And then, to soothe the humiliation of being duped by a common cut-throat, I'd have the right to choose your sentence, _Sir Guy_.” His laugh was throaty and weak. “Well, I won't keep you in suspense. You’d spend the rest of your life among the castle servants as an _equal_.”  
          No vulnerability remained in Guy’s features now; the knight radiated equal parts betrayal, self-loathing, and hatred, and Robert might have taken more time with him, if this pretty speech hadn’t demanded a well-played end, if his own body didn't demand rest, with a threat of imminent collapse.  
          “As difficult as it may be for you to _stop_ , and _think_ , Gisburne," he concluded softly, looking the knight in the eye, "you'd best remember this conversation, when next you're offered the _opportunity_ to put a knife in my back.”  
          While the ashen knight still watched, Robert crushed the paper in his hand and then lobbed it into the fire. Gisburne’s pale eyes followed the motion, with evident distress.  
          De Rainault considered the purse for a moment, then threw it lightly to Gisburne, who caught it stiffly.  
          "In the meantime, Gisburne. Women do like their apologies gilded; I imagine Isabella to be quite precocious in that regard," de Rainault suggested. And his look was a warning, which told the knight, _this is the last of your problems I will solve_.  
          Guy turned on a furious heel and stalked from the room. It was just as well. Robert hadn’t expected a reply, and truly, some quiet obedience from the blustering fighter would be a welcome change.  
          Then the Sheriff was finally left alone, and an exhausted, relieved languor flooded him as he surveyed the office, with its heavy furnishings of brown and gold. He took his goblet in a shaky hand and then plunked himself inelegantly into the soft chair before the fire. The velvet cushions supported his body kindly, the fire burned brightly, and he watched as the last tatters of the contract blazed up and then were obliterated. At last he rested in solitude, with the drowsy heat and the comfort and the nectar of the cup. And he allowed himself a small smile over his unexpected triumph.  
          For Robert was intensely gratified by this turn of events. Sending Gisburne away from Nottingham Castle had never been his desire, and he'd felt far more than he'd shown at the knight’s display. But Gisburne’s loyalties had to be secured beyond any doubt, before the man defected elsewhere and took de Rainault’s secrets with him. No-one took from the Sheriff of Nottingham what was rightfully his. And if neither luck nor cunning sufficed to hold _his_ Gisburne to him — then Robert de Rainault would have to be prepared, in the end, to _cheat_.


End file.
